A room where there was a bathtub in which men so inclined would would take turns being pissed on. There was an entire wall of glory holes with people kneeling in front of crotch-high holes and servicing disembodied erections.Ī whole rabbit warren of small rooms was downstairs, a re-creation of a jailcell, the back of a truck, dungeons and the most infamous room talked about in NYC at the time. Behind a partition was the “action” part of the club on two floors. Just inside the door was the big bar area with its low lights and pool tables. The Mineshaft existed for one reason and one reasons alone. Thee Mineshaft had rules of entrance, denim and leather only, no shirts with little alligators, no sneakers, and absolutely no cologne. But once inside everything was fair game. If you could pass muster you were let in. Upon arrival the Miineshaft’s nondescript street-level door opened to a stairway which led up to the doorkeeper, sitting on a barstool.
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